


Script

by wilddragonflying



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, First Words Soulmate AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 08:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19741510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: Hank always assumed that his soulmate would be some fan of a show that hasn’t been produced yet.Lieutenant Anderson, my name is Connor; I’m the android sent by CyberLife,come on. Androids were just a far-off fantasy, something that wouldn’t be a reality until Hank was an old, old man, maybe even dead and buried.Then CyberLife was founded in 2018. Almost immediately, they began working on producing functional androids.In 2022, the first android to pass the Turing test was produced.





	Script

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this tweet by Liss!](https://twitter.com/AdmiralLiss/status/1148440649546383362)

Hank always assumed that his soulmate would be some fan of a show that hasn’t been produced yet. _Lieutenant Anderson, my name is Connor; I’m the android sent by CyberLife,_ come on. Androids were just a far-off fantasy, something that wouldn’t be a reality until Hank was an old, old man, maybe even dead and buried. 

Then CyberLife was founded in 2018. Almost immediately, they began working on producing functional androids.

In 2022, the first android to pass the Turing test was produced. 

In early 2029, a drunken one-night stand with a friend leads to an unplanned pregnancy. They debate for a while over whether or not to keep it, but they both wanted kids at some point in their lives, and neither of them feel any shame having a child with someone not their soulmate. And so Cole is born, almost two months after Hank makes Lieutenant.

Another step closer to his soulmate.

Then, on October 11, 2035, Hank’s entire world comes crashing down around his ears. 

It’s easier to bury himself in his work and his drink than focus on what happened, let himself grieve and move on. Why should he move on? He was the one who thought they’d be fine in the icy conditions, thought that the intersection was clear, that - 

The fact that an android was the one to operate on Cole because the human doctor was too high off of red ice to operate just makes the soulmate thing a lot more complicated. 

And when, on November 6, 2038, he hears the words he’d honestly thought he’d never hear… Well, he’s already drunk, the anniversary of Cole’s death is still fresh enough that he feels raw, cracked open like a scab, and he thinks he can’t be blamed for lashing out at the goddamn _machine_ the universe thought it would be funny to stick him with.

Because that’s all Connor is, a _machine_ designed to accomplish a task, just like the android himself says.

But.... A machine wouldn’t have listened to Hank, let that android and the little girl escape. A machine wouldn’t have saved Hank from falling at the cost of its mission. A machine wouldn’t have found him, drunk off of his ass, tossed him in his shower, and then _looked_ at him with that soft little smile when he finally dragged his sorry ass out of the bathroom. A machine wouldn’t have let those two girls escape, professed fear for his own death, sacrificed vital information to save another machine’s nonexistent life. 

A machine wouldn’t have looked at him with such pain as it recited the facts of Cole’s death, sorrow clear in its voice as it looked past the barrel of his gun and met Hank’s gaze without flinching. A machine wouldn’t have clung to him so tightly under a deserted overpass, wouldn’t feel so goddamn _alive_ under his hands. 

Connor’s not a machine, Hank realizes shortly after meeting him. He’s alive, and… Well, he kind of makes Hank want to stay alive, too. Even if he never tells Connor about the soulmate thing - because that had already been a kick in the teeth, when he’d realized that Connor’s own chest was bare, that day in Stratford Tower, no matching phrase to prove Hank was his like he was Hank’s - he’s content, he tells himself, to be Connor’s friend, watch him learn how to be alive and simply _be._

He’s gotten real good at lying to himself in the past few years.

* * *

Connor has access to almost literally every piece of information mankind has ever known or wondered about; he knows about soulmates. He knows about the words, the phrases designed to guide those lucky pairs together. 

He also knows that, as an android, he doesn’t have words. His skin and chassis are bare, the one time he looks at himself in the mirror, after Eden Club, after seeing the soft, curling blue ink across the Tracis wrists when they’d linked hands. He doesn’t have words - he’s not alive. He doesn’t have a soul.

But… If the Tracis had them…

Every deviant in Jericho has words, some in blue ink, some in black. Some have more than one phrase, and some have words in a pale purple that Connor thinks means they’re destined for a relationship of a different kind with their soulmate. 

They’re _alive,_ the words argue, each colored letter staring him in the face and daring him to deny them. And in the end, he can’t. 

He doesn’t get a chance to look at himself again until after the demonstration, after he uses Kamski’s backdoor to free himself of Amanda’s control, after he finds Hank by the now-abandoned ChickenFeed, holds him close and _breathes_ for the first time, follows Hank back to his home because where else is he going to go? He avoids it for a few days, hope and fear warring within him in equal measures, but eventually, when Hank has left for the station to argue Fowler into letting Connor work with them again, Connor all but tiptoes into the bathroom despite the fact that only Sumo, snoring on the couch, is in the house with him. 

In the washed-out light of the bathroom, Connor undresses himself, avoiding the mirror or looking at himself until he’s fully bare, synthskin retracted. Only then does he turn to face the mirror and open his eyes.

The words catch his attention immediately, scrawled across his chest in messy black handwriting. 

_What do you want?_

It’s the work of milliseconds to scan his memory for a matching phrase, the answer the search returns making his thirium pump skip a beat. 

Hank.

Hank is the only human who’s said those words to him in the time he’s been activated. The night they first met, before Connor even _thought_ that perhaps the deviants were right…

Connor feels the irrational urge to stumble backwards and sit on the closed toilet lid. He doesn’t, instead bracing himself against the sink for a moment, mind whirling. It only takes a moment to decide his course of action, and despite the fear he feels, he feels… Hopeful. It outweighs the fear, gives him the courage to reactivate his synthskin, watch the words bleed into existence across his chest before he covers them up, dressing again.

Hank texts him shortly after saying that Fowler’s agreed to let Connor back on the force starting tomorrow, and Connor replies with his thanks and a query about dinner. When Hank returns, Connor’s almost finished preparing the meal - a simple one, given both Connor’s own inexperience cooking and the lack of ingredients in Hank’s cabinets - and he greets Hank with a smile.

He waits until Hank has finished eating before he broaches the subject of soulmates. “I noticed,” he starts with, “that every deviant in Jericho had the words of their soulmate on them in some place.”

Hank, who’d raised his bottle of beer to his mouth to take a sip, lowers it again slowly. “Really?”

“Yes. The ones I spoke to after… Well, _after,_ said that their words didn’t appear until after they had deviated. I was… curious.”

Hank’s grip tightens on the bottle in his hands, and Connor watches him carefully. “Curious about if you had any words?”

“Yes.” Connor licks his lips, a nervous habit he’s picked up in the past few days, and notes the way that Hank’s gaze drops, follows the movement. It gives him the courage to say, “I have words, now. Across my chest. I didn’t notice them until after I deactivated my synthskin.”

Hank swallows, hard; his heart rate rises, but his gaze never leaves Connor’s as he asks, “Yeah? What - “ He clears his throat, tries again. “What do they say?”

Connor takes in a deep breath before he adjusts his vocal synthesizer, pitches his tone into a perfect imitation Hank’s gruff greeting that night at the bar, only two weeks ago, now, but feeling like a lifetime ago. “ _What do you want?_ ”

Hank goes almost completely, utterly still - so still, in fact, that if Connor didn’t know better, he’d think Hank were an android himself. “You’re sure?” he demands, bottle clinking unsteadily against the table as he releases it, his hands falling to his lap.

“I’m sure,” Connor says, returning his voice to its normal pitch. “You are the only one who has said that exact phrase to me, and the script matches your handwriting.”

“ _Jesus,_ ” Hank breathes, eyes wide. “I - Connor, that’s - That’s amazing.”

“I thought so, too,” Connor admits quietly, lips curving in a small, genuine smile. “I suppose the only question that remains is if _you_ have the matching words.”

Hank blinks, but then flushes, glancing down before his shoulders rise and fall, straighten. He pushes his chair back, fingers working over the buttons of his shirt before pushing the material out of the way, and -

And there, in a script that perfectly matches the CyberLife Sans, is the phrase: _Lieutenant Anderson, my name is Connor; I’m the android sent by CyberLife._ Connor scoots his chair around the table until he can reach out, hand hovering over Hank’s chest; he glances up, meets Hank’s gaze. “May I?” When Hank nods, Connor lets his hand move, until he can touch the top curve of the C. Hank lets out a shuddering breath, and Connor moves his hand, reaching for Hank’s so that he can twine their fingers together, look up and meet Hank’s gaze again.

“Seems like we were destined to change each other,” Hank murmurs, his hand squeezing Connor’s. 

Connor smiles. “It appears so,” he agrees.

That first kiss feels like coming home.


End file.
